Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

  Can an entire cathedral be a secret? The Cathedrale de Jean Linard sits hidden in the rolling Berry countryside, near a village so small - Neuvy-Deux-Clochers - that most people drive straight past it without knowing either exists. Jean Linard was a potter. Then he became a sculptor, an engraver, a painter.  When he bought an old flint quarry in 1961, he did what any reasonable person would do: he started building a cathedral in his back garden, ad he kept building it for nearly fifty years, until he died in 2010 He'd been inspired by the Facteur Cheval, a postman in the Drôme who spent thirty-three years constructing a fantastical palace because he tripped over a stone one day and liked its shape. And by Gaudí, who started the Sagrada Família in 1882 and whose church - as you may have noticed - still isn't quite finished. What connected these three men - Linard, Cheval, Gaudi - was simple: they had an idea, and they didn't stop. The stubbornness became the point. Af...

   We live, we are frequently told, in an age of unprecedented connectivity. Platforms connect us. Networks connect us. A man in Copenhagen can, in a matter of a splitsecond, reach a man in Sao Paulo even though he might not have anything particular urgent to say. This is considered progress and a part of modernity. But Rita and I had yesterday the occasion in the Burgundian village Rogny-les-Sept-Ecluses to stand next to a staircase of stone and water which showed that we moderns have of course not invented the idea of connecting stuff. Someone back in the 17th century dreamt of connecting the Mediterranean Sea to the English Channel by making a passageway from the Loire river to the Seine. And here on this hill in Burgundy, at the watershed between the two mighty rivers, is the result of that thought.   By building seven locks pressed together in a staircase up a hillside in Rogny, the boats could ascend the twenty-four metres up from the Loire valley.   Twelv...

  The plan was to escape. This is important context! Nordic winters are long and grey and self-serious, and by the end of February Rita and I had reached the point where the darkness stops feeling atmospheric and starts feeling personal. France, we reasoned, would be different. France in early March would be spring. There would be light. There would be warmth. There would be outdoor tables and wine and the specific looseness that comes from sitting in the sun in a country that takes lunch seriously. And then we rented a small house in the town of Sancerre Sancerre sits on a hill in the Loire Valley and is known, globally, for one thing: its white wine. Sauvignon blanc of considerable reputation. Writers have praised it. Sommeliers have wept over it. Restaurants in Copenhagen, London and New York charge serious money for a glass of it. We looked forward to be living at the source.  Now we are, and all is grey. It is cold. It rains every day. Not the dramatic Nordic cold that...

Selling a house should be regarded as just a transaction.  That, at least, is what one of our more unsentimental friends told us. Yet, as we packed up our now-sold townhouse in the mountain village of Antraigues-Sur-Volane in Southern France, we found that the cardboard boxes stacked in our living room represented more than mere containers for transporting objects. They were, in fact, inadequate vessels for what we were truly attempting to pack: Almost twenty years of lived experience. The real estate listing described our house as a "charming two-bedroom property with traditional features," but it failed to capture what this place actually represents.  This has not just been our vacation house. During the last many years it became truly our home away from home as the seasonal rhythms of our visits created a peculiar form of belonging.  Though we were never full-time residents, the village baker would greet us warmly upon our arrival each year, and the neighbors woul...

Yesterday, I crawled through muddy, dark Roman-era tunnels below Lisbon, which are normally filled with groundwater and only accessible to a few visitors each year. The tunnels were carved during the reign of Emperor Augustus, and for centuries, they directed underground rainwater while the empires above rose and fell. Eventually, they were completely sealed off and forgotten,  only to be rediscovered by chance during the rebuilding after the 1755 earthquake, which had turned most of Lisbon into rubble. Today, the crypts are pumped dry on a couple of days each year, and the only entry to the below is through a narrow shaft in the middle of the busy Rua da Conceição, right between the rails of the 28 tram line. The stairs  leading down are steep and risky, and when you finally reach the galleries, a few lights illuminate the void that had stood in complete darkness for more than a Millenium  Some of the tunnels are so low and narrow that you have to climb through t...

Nestled in the Alcântara district, the sprawling LXFactory complex stands as an intriguing monument to Lisbon's industrial past.  Once the area was home to a thriving spinning mill, the largest in all of Portugal, but when industrial production in Lisbon declined, the 23.000 square meters of abandoned brick buildings were eventually taken over by young entrepreneurs and startups, and today the LXFactory hosts an eclectic mix of more than 200 creative spaces and shops. Cur.ious to experience this reimagined slice of urban history, we decided today to spend an afternoon wandering its halls. Following the sound of animated chatter down Rua Rodrigues de Faria, we first came across a  courtyard filled with mismatched tables and chairs, where patrons sipped drinks purchased from small kiosks dotted around the space.  The aroma of fresh pizza and spices mingled in the air, emanating from the var.ious eateries bordering the courtyard. Venturing inside the soaring warehouses, w...

Yesterday, our journey along Lisbon's shores took us from decay to delight.  We began the day by walking along the crumbling warehouses and abandoned factories at the Cais do Ginjal, and we ended with golden sardines and moist monkfish at the Ponto Finale restaurant, experiencing some of the cur.ious contrasts this city has to offer.  Cais do Ginjal - the waterfront across the river from the city proper - were once thrumming with activity, but  now they stand empty as a relic from Portugal's industrial past while slowly succumbing to rust and decay.   Wandering past the locked warehouses with their peeling paint and cracked windows, one could almost hear the ghosts of ships being loaded years ago.  Wildflowers sprouted from brickwork worn by salt air and time. Graffiti swirled vibrantly across deteriorating walls in attempts to reclaim these forgotten structures. In one warehouse, an entire wall had collapsed, exposing rusty pipes and machinery ...